


What Could Have Been

by orphan_account



Series: Home Is so Far Away [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Backstory, F/M, Plot isn't romance-driven, The Collared Titan au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The backstory for Mikasa Ackerman, from chapters 1-8 of A Swift Lesson in Irony. As it's predecessor was intended to be lighthearted and romantic, it had to sacrifice critical parts of the plot I had intended to include, mainly what the hell was going on with Mikasa most of the time. This begins at the beginning, and will eventually connect to where The Collared Titan arc left off.<br/>Expect shorter chapters, but frequent updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Could Have Been

She had barely been able to crawl before she was spoon-fed the knowledge of her family (deceased, save for one), of her village (her mother and she, the only survivors), of her land (the only thing left for them). Her mother would pass sips of apple juice to her in soft wooden cups, in between whispers of betrayals passed. She wove flowers into her own hair with chubby fingers that she should’ve outgrown years ago, listening to her mother. For years, she was frozen in a state of only listening, with a mind made mature, with a useless tongue.

Three years passed, and she was able to stand on her two feet. Her ankles rolled and her arms waved, her mind confused and muddled as her body couldn’t catch up with what she told it to do. She’d seen her mother move in the same manner, practiced on her tiptoes, and found herself frustrate, ending up sitting down. She stretched her legs and crawled often to strengthen the muscles until she could stand without her mother’s hand at her back.

It took another three years for her to move her tongue around skillfully enough to pronounce the same words as her mother, who grayed and paled as she grew stronger. Secrets and whispers still clung to her mind, and her first word had been a very soft ‘why’. Her mother cried that night, in a tree she thought too high for her daughter to hear her.

When her mother died, she, now alone, aged strangely, feeling differences by the day, as apples grew closer to her hands. She found she needed nothing but sunlight on her skin to thrive, unknowing of the thirst and hunger her mother had experienced. She slept on beds of moss, napping in halos of mushrooms. She experienced no sense of loss in relation to her mother, aside from firmly packing seeds into the ground around her decaying body.

Her mother told her dead bodies bloomed the best flowers.

She had been left on her lonesome, inheriting a single curved blade and the entire world around her. Years weaned on and off, the night and moon being her only measurement of time, until the bright green grass and blinding wildflowers no longer held her interest. When she spoke, her voice would reverberate back to her, the only response she would get. The lands lacked wildlife and, by proxy, noise of any sort, save for the very faint lapping of waves in the distance.

When she felt lonely, she would run to the shore, the distance usually taking her at least half a day, and sit. The trips seemed to lack meaning, as she always left feeling hollow, robbed of the only other sound aside from her voice. Emotion curled deep in her chest, resting there, and soon she felt as if she couldn’t breathe from the weight of it. She knew she didn’t miss her mother, specifically, just the feeling of another presence, of a guiding hand.

Memories began to burn and her mother had told her, given her very clear instructions, as to what to do when this happened.

So she curved her knife into the back of her thigh, the place with the least nerves to be damaged and repaired, raising up a perfectly straight line of rubies. She hoped to forget.


End file.
